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phone, had had a stroke, and she was afraid he was going to
die. The voice that spoke to him out of the black tube which
he pressed coldly against his ear was alien to him.

But Mr. Christian did not dieónot soon. He lay beneath
the high, carved headboard of his bed, inert as a log almost,
and without sound except for the dry rasp of his measured
and grudging breath. His face, now splotchy in its colour,
was frozen in a pained and inquiring grimace, and his glance
was fixed.

But Mr. Munn did not see him when he went out to the
Christian place. He was never to see him again after that
night when he left him standing halfway down the stairs,
barefooted, his nightshirt wadded into his trousers.

When he got out to the Christian house that next morning,
Lucille Christian met him in the hall. Her face was chalk-
white, and her eyes, no longer blue, seemed dark and sunken.

"How is he?" Mr. Munn asked.

Looking at him, with her hair falling half loose about her
face, she seemed unable to speak.

"How is he?" he repeated.

"It was terrible," she uttered hoarsely, in a whisper which
was as dry and impersonal and alien as the sounds which had
come from the telephone receiver.

" Can I see him?" he asked, looking at her, and took a step
toward the staircase.

She did not take her gaze from his face, and her right arm,
as though with an independent volition, thrust forward at him.
The fingers clutched the fabric of his sleeve, twisting it. " No!"
she said. "No!"


The grip tightened on his sleeve.

" It was terrible," she whispered retardedly, in that voice.

They had quarrelled, she finally managed to tell him. Her
father had found her. He had come into the room where she
was, there was no telling why, but it had seemed as though to
look out the front window at Mr. Munn riding off, and he had